


i've never been there but i know the way

by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Porn With Plot, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Size Kink, a revelation of competency among your travel companions, basically jaskier starts being competent and geralts like. huh. Huh, buying gifts because you dont know how to express emotions, jaskier is a flirt, the summary doesnt summarize my apologies, the tags also dont summarize very well now that i'm looking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22442125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes/pseuds/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes
Summary: On the left hand of the noble, however, is Jaskier. His charm is turned up to eleven, and Geralt could swear he’s batting his eyelashes, and his voice is all syrupy-sweet. He squints at his bard to no avail- Jaskier is very determinedly seducing this damn noble.And what’s worse is that it’s working. Somehow, improbably, Jaskier is charming him through shockingly well delivered compliments and subtle little flattering remarks. It’s such a far cry from the stuttering, irritating bard Geralt knows that he feels almost offended, like this has been purposefully hidden from him just to pull out at the most fucking inopportune time he could possibly find.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 182
Kudos: 2644
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Best Geralt, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	i've never been there but i know the way

**Author's Note:**

> is the title from im going to go back there someday from the muppet movie again, you ask. your voice is weary. you already know the answer to that question

Jaskier is not generally a massive help on- 

Well, he’s not generally a massive help on anything. He’s a neutral factor at absolute best, a hindrance most of the time, and a direct obstacle at worst. Geralt doesn’t know why he keeps letting him come along on hunts and the like, except for Jaskier can be remarkably persistent when he wants to be. 

That’s most of the time, for those keeping count. 

He has some redeeming factors, those being the way he’s slowly but steadily improving Geralt’s reputation song by song and also his proficiency with stitching up wounds. He does spend the entire time complaining and babbling on, but he’s saved Geralt some pain. 

So- at best, a slightly positive neutral. A mug of hot water: not the worst thing in the world, and it’ll keep you hydrated, but not what one really needs on their side in a fight. 

This is a terrible metaphor. Geralt furrows his brow hard but he can’t dredge up another one. Maybe hot water with some honey? No, he thinks it’s probably irredeemable. 

The point is: Geralt is, reluctantly, fond of Jaskier. Too fond, probably. But he isn’t under any illusions as to his usefulness. 

Take now, for instance. Geralt is sitting stiffly in a polished chair at the right hand of a noble. There’s a- there’s a  _ something _ yet to be determined, at least, killing people, and the townsfolk had pleaded but the noble has stayed infuriatingly close lipped. Geralt had intended to perhaps end the night threatening information out of him, because it’s obvious he’s involved  _ somehow _ , but in the meantime he thought he’d try vaguely polite diplomacy. 

On the left hand of the noble, however, is Jaskier. His charm is turned up to eleven, and Geralt could swear he’s batting his eyelashes, and his voice is all syrupy-sweet. He squints at his bard to no avail- Jaskier is very determinedly seducing this damn noble. 

And what’s worse is that it’s  _ working _ . Somehow, improbably, Jaskier is charming him through shockingly well delivered compliments and subtle little flattering remarks. It’s such a far cry from the stuttering, irritating bard Geralt knows that he feels almost offended, like this has been purposefully hidden from him just to pull out at the most fucking inopportune time he could possibly find. 

But- diplomacy. Decorum. Geralt isn’t a master of it, but he figures grabbing his stupid bard by the ear and dragging him out into the corridor to have a little spat would be at least a tad frowned upon. Even though he is fucking up the entire point of this entire outing by worming his way into the pants of exactly the wrong fucking person. 

Jaskier, five feet from him, laughs high and tinkling. The noble slides his hand over and rests it on Jaskier’s knee. Geralt clenches his fists so tightly he’s half worried for the silverware and barely contains a growl. 

-

This dinner is possibly lasting forever. He’s gotten all the forks mixed up- what in hell’s name is the difference between a salad fork and a dessert fork? He’ll be buggered if he knows, but Jaskier keeps leaning over to tut at him in between making eyes at the noble. 

He’s not even attractive, is the thing! At this point he knows that Jaskier will sleep with everything that moves and is willing, but this man is practically weedy. He’s balding. He’s got a voice that’s reminiscent of someone’s first attempt at the violin.

They disappear together. Geralt does something that is certainly not sulking if you’re looking at it with your eyes a bit squinted. There’s no point to being here without the noble, and there’s no point in being here without Jaskier. He’s grumpy, and bored, and Jaskier had talked him into letting him do his hair so it’s actually brushed, and for what? For nothing. There’s something eating townsfolk and there’s nothing he can do about it until the end of the cursedly long night. He’s irritated, and his armour is too hot in the crowded feasting hall, and somewhere Jaskier’s off getting bedded by a weasel. 

Not that he cares. 

He’s long since finished his food. That’s perhaps the single positive- a free meal. He glances over at the two empty chairs to his left, and helps himself to their leftovers. 

-

Finally-  _ finally- _ Jaskier comes swaggering out, pink-cheeked and red-lipped and looking terribly pleased with himself. Geralt glares.

“You-” 

“Shut up and listen,” Jaskier says, still beaming- he’s pitched his voice low, leaning right down next to Geralt’s ear. He smells of sex. “I’ve distracted him,  _ obviously _ , got the keys to his holding cells. There’s a few witnesses down there that I figure we should talk to.” 

“Hm,” Geralt says, for lack of anything else. “You were-” 

Jaskier sighs, looking put upon. “Sacrificing my modesty for the good of the cause? Yes,  _ Geralt _ , I was. Now get up, go on, I didn’t actually suck the life from his whole person, just his cock.”

“What modesty,” Geralt grumbles, but stands nonetheless. They leave the room together, shoulders brushing just slightly, and Jaskier practically skips as he leads the way down a twisting set of stairs to a damp little dungeon area. He’s preening. Geralt manfully doesn’t roll his eyes. 

Jaskier is not generally a massive help on anything, ever. At all. But Geralt is not one to back down from admitting (privately, to himself, in the comfort of his own head) that he was wrong, just this once. The witnesses are a great help, once they’re coaxed into speaking with liberal application of charm (Jaskier) and stony looks (Geralt). There’s a rusalka. It’s been eating people. 

“But not very nice ones,” a man clarifies, looking rather despondent.

“Hm,” says Geralt. 

“Go on,” says Jaskier, encouragingly. Apparently he’s determined to be helpful, now. 

“It’s the quantity,” he continues, gloomily. “We’re all, you know. We’re worried about someone who isn’t, uh, terrible. Being eaten. You know.” 

“Why are you locked in the dungeon?” Geralt asks. The man sighs. 

“I suggested that perhaps the beast should eat the lord next.” 

Both of them blink at him. “And he-” 

Another, longer sigh. “Locked me in the dungeon.” Geralt can practically  _ smell _ Jaskier composing a sonnet right now. It’s a horrible sixth sense he’s developed. 

They leave the cell doors unlocked, and he slips despondently out behind the five or so prisoners they’ve unabashedly set free. “What an unhappy man,” Jaskier says, with the air of someone who’s never been at less than one hundred percent in his life, or at least pretending at it. Geralt grunts. 

-

“You’ve betrayed me,” the noble squeaks, glaring at Jaskier- Geralt is carrying the rusalka’s head under his arm like a ball, and he keeps sneaking looks at it. 

“I’ll- I’ll be honest,” Jaskier says, and Geralt closes his eyes because Jaskier’s honesty is never good. “I’ll be honest, you were- it wasn’t my best tumble, and also,  _ also _ , you didn’t finish me off, so-” he spends a long moment sort of blinking, and it conveys his offense remarkably well. “Oh, not to mention the twenty men you left for dead.” 

“But they were just peasants,” he protests. “Nobody liked them.” 

“Nobody likes you,” Jaskier shoots back, less than clever- Geralt winces, takes Jaskier’s collar and tows him away. It’s a familiar gesture, by now. 

“If you could stop antagonizing the lords,” he rumbles. 

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Jaskier snaps. 

There’s not a lot of money for the job, but fair’s fair so Geralt splits it two to one. 

-

And then, like he’s had a taste of not being completely useless, Jaskier starts to demonstrate- 

Geralt wouldn’t call it  _ competency _ , really. It’s not the kind of word that fits Jaskier’s general prissy, fussy, delicate disposition. 

A clarification: Geralt respects Jaskier as a man beneath all his frivolities. He has an iron core. But it’s buried deep down, and it’s just- 

It’s odd, is what it is. That Jaskier’s going along on his hunts to  _ hunt _ , not just to write down events for the autobiography he swears up and down he’ll write. It’s not like he’s monster-slaying but he uses his pretty jeweled dagger to stab at things more often than not. 

It’s odd, but it’s welcome, just a little. An element Geralt doesn’t have to try so hard to control. Jaskier isn’t helpless and hidden in the trees- he’s lying in wait. He is, on occasion, jumping  _ out _ of the trees to save Geralt’s life. He gets into a fucking barfight, just once, before apparently deciding it’s not for him. 

(“I’m a pacifist,” Jaskier announces, proudly- his words are thick and slurred through a broken nose, and he is clutching unhappily at Geralt’s sleeve. Geralt doesn’t like to see, smell, taste Jaskier’s blood in the air, and so he is glowering and silent, and he pinches at it rather harder than necessary.)

Still, though. He’s human, and he’s fragile. Geralt buys him a dagger, a little longer, a lot sturdier than the pretty jeweled one he’d had. Then he buys him thick leather gloves, because Jaskier often looks a little purple around the fingers when they’re outside too long. Then he buys him a cloak, because, really, silks and thin trousers don’t protect from the cold. Jaskier accepts the gifts with good humor and a furrow in his brow, but it’s the heavy black cloak that makes him pause and laugh. 

“I- do you think I’m going to freeze to death, Geralt, because I can assure you I’m sturdier than I look and I can afford my own cloak besides,” he says, and when Geralt is finished grumbling he starts on a song about someone’s cock falling off due to the cold, which. Conflicting messages. Geralt eyes a pair of sturdy winter boots and is nudged firmly away with a hand to his elbow. 

Right. 

So, Jaskier is a nuisance in this particular instance because he’s being helpful, and that’s infuriating and makes Geralt feel a pleased sort of curl inside him. 

This is not to say- gods forbid Geralt even  _ imply- _ that Jaskier isn’t being his regular annoying self. Oh, no. He is earthshatteringly irritating. Sometimes just the faint noise of him taking up his lute by the neck, fingers on the strings, has Geralt’s jaw clenching. It’s just- 

It’s just. He has no idea. He has been feeling strange feelings ever since the feast. Before the feast, maybe. That unwise fondness he apparently sets aside just for Jaskier, made soft in his chest. And now this new creature, brave and grinning. 

-

Brave. Geralt shouldn’t be surprised by Jaskier’s newfound confidence. He has seen it gut a werewolf, nevermind that he was trembling after. He has seen it steel his face after he’s been hurt and he doesn’t want Geralt to know countless times. 

He sees it now, Jaskier’s familiar bright smile as he plops himself down, straddling Geralt’s lap like he was meant to be there. 

“Hm,” says Geralt, inquisitive, and Jaskier ducks his head forward and kisses him, and he’s surprised.

He tastes of the honeyed mead he’d had that morning- he tastes warm and sweet and alive. It’s a hesitant kiss at first but Jaskier makes a noise, soft in the back of his throat, and his lips open against him and Geralt is licking in, in, in. Tongue over tongue, over teeth. 

They’re in the woods, stopped for the night in a little clearing with bright patches of spring flowers. Geralt is sitting on a stump, holding carefully to those slender hips. 

“Are you-” he begins, careful. 

Jaskier gasps out half a moan, prettily. “Yes, I-” 

“You’re  _ so _ ,” Geralt manages before he’s drawn back in. It’s fine- words are not his strong suit and Jaskier tastes wonderful, feels wonderful all pressed up against him like he can’t get enough. This is  _ it _ , this is everything, his hands tight, thumbs tracing hipbones. This is it, when he nips at Jaskier’s neck and gets a whine in return, curses pressed out hasty and half-muffled.

“The mouth on you, bard,” he murmurs, unsurprised- Jaskier mewls, and Geralt reaches a hand up, presses a finger between those pink lips. Jaskier sucks. Geralt growls, and then they’re on the ground, lying in a bed of flowers. Geralt is not a poet but if he was one this would be his muse: Jaskier, eyes bright and happy, lips swollen red, mussed up hair, on his back and surrounded, bright yellow, by dandelions. He leans down to kiss, to taste, to touch, bracketing his bard in with his elbows and his thighs, and Jaskier is loud, of course he’s loud, he’s always loud, and-

They come together, messy. Geralt has both their cocks in his hand, half frantic, Jaskier’s hands fluttering down his back and through his hair and sliding, reverent, over his arms. When they still, they’re looped carefully over his shoulders, fragile and twining. 

“What was that,” Geralt asks, not displeased. Warmth inside him- warmth outside him, Jaskier pressed hot and cozy-tight. (He can admit, just to himself, that he is content and happy and calm like this. They fit together nicely.)

“Uh,” says Jaskier, raising an eyebrow, and Geralt already misses the lovely sweet noises he’d been making, so he leans in to kiss it from his lips. Jaskier laughs, pulls back. “Oi, you asked me a question, at least let me-” 

Geralt leans in again, nips carefully at his lower lip, and his bard gives in with a half irritated, half fond noise. “Later,” he murmurs, gravelly, “I’ll have you on your back, like this-” 

“Oh,  _ later _ , someone thinks a little highly of hims- oh! You  _ brute _ ,” Jaskier says, delighted, because Geralt’s just bit at his neck and is laving at the sore skin like he can suck away the ache of it. He feels a little wild, a little ridiculous. Happy. “I should’ve known you’d be like this, you’ve got that look in your eye-  _ Geralt- _ ” 

Later, Geralt has him on his back, so maddeningly, torturously slowly that Jaskier can’t even speak by the time Geralt’s ready to seat himself. He just makes these punched out little gasps, bleary eyes half-lidded, and the noise he makes when he slides inside is something Geralt knows he’ll be replaying every time he gets himself off from now to forever. He fucks him slow, half gentle and half brutal just by nature, an inexorable force pushing, pushing, pushing until Jaskier is whining with it, soft and trembling, one hand tangled with Geralt’s own on his belly. Geralt’s nipping down the slender column of his neck, tiny sucking bites that will bruise come morning, and Jaskier is sweet and pliant beneath him, cock flushed and curved to his belly. 

He’s so lovely it’s sharp and hot at Geralt’s breastbone, a brand making itself known. Mouth slack, still so noisy even when he’s being quiet, all sighed out breathing and whimpering moans. He moves up to kiss him, slotting their mouths together, moves their twisted up hands down to Jaskier’s cock and begins to stroke at it. Jaskier gets especially breathy when he’s about to come, a fact that Geralt is usually ambivalent on but is now extraordinary pleased to find in person. He spends on his chest, and the Witcher follows quickly after, and they lay there in the twilight and listen to the sounds of a forest teeming with life. 

Jaskier’s petting through Geralt’s hair, a slow, lazy slide that they both become aware of at the same time- Jaskier laughs and Geralt smiles though he’s not really sure why. He smells good, of sweat and forest and sweet almond oil. 

-

Perhaps he’ll call it competency. Maybe even to Jaskier’s face. 

**Author's Note:**

> jaskier: hey check this out im helping (waving dagger)  
> geralt at once terrified aroused and proud: i 
> 
> this inspired by this prompt from Directionally_Challenged: "Geralt gets jealous when Jaskier flirts with a noble during an investigation of a monster/curse that requires more tact and subtlety than usual. It's only revealed afterwards that Jaskier had stolen the keys to a certain dungeon cell, where they need to interrogate one of the witnesses. Geralt is impressed but grumpy but Jaskier is oblivious" except i got carried away a little bit im sorry i hope u like it anyway 
> 
> if you liked this please send me an ask or a prompt over at redjewelsforeyes.tumblr.com!!
> 
> ALSO if u liked this please leave a comment i will place a quarter under your pillow


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